by Wendy Devore
“And I live here. Well, in San Francisco. Which makes the next task much, much easier.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m going to make a little withdrawal from my trust fund.”
“You’re a trust fund baby? If you’re independently wealthy, why do you work for a psychopath like Breckinridge?”
“It’s complicated,” he replied, shifting his attention to a pile of buttered toast.
The almost imperceptible clench of his jaw was evidence that I’d hit a nerve, so I backed off. Yet if I had a trust fund, I’d move to a tropical beach. Or fund my own lab. Or found my own lab on a tropical beach! I shook my head, a gesture wasted on my companion as his attention was diverted to the leftover bacon on the breakfast cart.
“Whatever,” I muttered.
Andrew laid out the plan as we walked south on Shattuck Avenue.
“Wells Fargo has administered my family’s accounts since at least the 1930s, and there should be a big branch in a historic building just a few blocks from here.”
“What makes you think that the money will still be there?” I mused. “You could be as poor as a pauper in this reality.”
“Not likely. My address in this reality is the corner of Green and Fillmore, in Pacific Heights.”
“So?”
“In our slice, that neighborhood is home to the founders of Oracle and PayPal, the VP of design for Apple, and a former Speaker of the House.”
“Oh. Yeah, you’re probably rolling in dough.” I thought a minute. “But you only have the ID of Lars Jørgensen. How are you going to convince the bank to hand over your megabucks?”
“Won’t that be a most interesting assignment, my dear Miss Moneypenny?”
The modest storefront branch bank I expected was instead a six-story brick monster that dwarfed the more unassuming buildings surrounding it. The bank’s sweeping lobby looked like something out of a bygone era and encompassed the entire first floor. Columns topped by decorative scrolls supported the twelve-foot ceilings. Crown molding was everywhere, and banking associates stood behind turn-of-the-century walnut counters topped with white marble. There wasn’t a slab of plexiglass to be seen; apparently armed bank robberies weren’t a thing here.
I hesitated as Andrew made his way toward one of the many standing-height counters crisscrossing the expansive space.
“Maybe it would be safer if I hung back here? I’m not very good at this secret agent stuff.”
Andrew shook his head. “Definitely not. If this plan goes south, I’ll need you nearby to get us out.”
I nodded, straightened my skirt, and tried not to look nervous. As Andrew approached the teller, he turned on his thousand-watt smile.
“How may I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m so sorry to inconvenience you.” Andrew’s tone was a perfect mixture of humbleness and charisma. “I have an appointment to make a withdrawal from my trust account.” He leaned in toward her, and she cocked her head with more interest than I’d expect for your garden-variety financial transaction. Andrew’s expression changed, and suddenly he seemed awkward and vulnerable. “I’m afraid someone has made off with my identification…”
“I notice you’re without your CereLink,” she commented, tapping her own headband device.
“I’m studying Tibetan Buddhism, and removal of all distraction is necessary in order to properly practice dharma.” He pressed his palms together at chin level and offered the teller a small bow. It took all the restraint I had to keep from bursting out laughing.
“How very enlightened.” She smiled, leaning over the counter and placing her hand lightly on his arm. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can help you access your account, if you don’t mind being subjected to a few biometric scans to confirm your identity.”
“Not at all.” Andrew smiled warmly.
“That’s great,” the teller gushed. “If you would please meet me in one of the private client rooms at the far end of the lobby, I’ll take care of you right away.”
“My cousin will join us,” Andrew suggested, waving vaguely in my direction as he strode across the room without even a backward glance.
Cousin? I was surprised how much this comment stung.
When we reached the small office, the teller sat behind a heavy, vintage walnut desk, clear of all objects except a large, leather-bound ledger and a black, glossy device no larger than a deck of cards.
Andrew lowered himself into the only available client seat, so I hovered nervously near the door.
The teller stared pointedly at the device, and small yellow lights embedded in its surface illuminated.
She lifted the device and handed it to Andrew. “We’ll use the standard fingerprint and retinal scan to confirm your identity. Thumb here”—she indicated the side of the object—“then hold the lens on the back about three inches from your eye.”
Andrew did as instructed. The biometric analysis was over in less than a minute.
The teller seemed to stare off into space for a moment, then beamed.
“Perfect! You’re authenticated to withdraw any amount you like from your account, Mr. Breckinridge.”
Andrew sauntered through the lobby, stuffing a wad of cash equal to two months’ of my tuition into his pocket. I trudged three steps behind, glowering. The effort I’d put into gritting my teeth over the last ten minutes was starting to give me jaw muscle fatigue, but I managed to keep silent until we exited the bank.
“Hold up a minute,” I demanded, stopping on the marble stairs. Andrew turned, raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Andrew Breckinridge?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Your last name is Breckinridge? As in, Andric Breckinridge?”
Andrew’s face was flat and expressionless, his eyes cool. “My father.”
“Andric Breckinridge is your father?”
“Kathryn, please keep your voice down,” he insisted, glancing around and reaching for my hand.
“No!” I bellowed. I took three steps backward and wrapped my arms around my chest. “No, no, no! You do not get to touch me, and you do not get to tell me what to do. You lied to me! You let me think that…I don’t know what. That you were on my side? That you liked me? You are Albaion. You and that cruel, callous, egocentric, evil man. Your father? How could you keep that from me?”
“Kathryn, I…”
My stomach contracted into a tight, tense knot, my anger so fierce that my hands began trembling.
“I can’t even look at you! I am so angry, I can’t even…”
A wave of vertigo flooded over me. In an instant, the worst headache I’d ever felt in my life jackhammered its way into the base of my skull. I closed my eyes and tried desperately to catch my breath. When I opened them, I was staring at the ceiling of an unmarked hospital room at the Stanford Medical Center.
I sat up, struggling with the hospital’s warming blanket and a tangle of cables, leads, and tubes snaking from my body. I roughly yanked the electrode cap from my skull by its umbilicus of cables, tossing it to the floor. The erratic movement of my left hand sent the Bug flying; it skittered to a stop beneath Andrew’s hospital gurney. My eyes swept the room and settled on the only other person present. Janine sprang from the sofa and hurried to my side.
“Kate, you’re back!” She ran her hand over my forehead as I struggled to sit up. Then she glanced at the gurney beside me.
“Why isn’t Andrew awake?” she asked, worry furrowing her brow.
I narrowed my eyes.
“He isn’t awake because I didn’t bring him back,” I declared through clenched teeth.
Janine stared at me for a moment, then noted my vital signs. She reached over and depressed the call button, then retrieved the Bug, placing it carefully on the table. Within a minute, Dr. Daniels hurried into the room.
He moved to my side as his eyes played over the array of medical devices monitoring my vitals. Then he peered at Andrew, worry creasing his brow. “Kate, what went wrong? Why hasn’t Andrew regained co
nsciousness?”
My eyes were reduced to narrow slits, and my heart was pounding. “Unhook me, now! I am done with this insanity.”
“But, Kate…” Janine pleaded.
“No more!” I shrieked. The sound of my own voice echoing inside my skull ratcheted the headache from atrocious to excruciating. Janine moved to restrain me.
“Kate, please calm down,” she pleaded as she struggled to keep me from tumbling out of the bed. “For heaven’s sake, lie still. Your catheter needs to be deflated before we can remove it. And if you pull out your IV, you’ll bleed all over the place.”
I sank back into the bed and tears streamed down my face.
“Okay,” I conceded, covering my eyes with my free hand. It was cold, which felt good, but I began to see the aura, and the pounding in my head strengthened. “The migraine is starting,” I whimpered. “It’s a really bad one. Is there something you can give me?”
Janine breathed a sigh of relief and nodded, releasing me from her grasp.
Dr. Daniels’s solid voice was a calming balm. “IV prochlorperazine, right away. It’s likely to make you sleepy, and we’ll have to monitor you for side effects for several hours.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Now that the adrenaline surge was draining away, I realized how weary I felt. I tentatively flexed my legs. Every muscle in my body ached.
When Dr. Daniels spoke again, his voice sounded far away. “Kate, a common side effect of this medication is sedation. It should relieve your migraine, but you may sleep for several hours. Can you tell me what happened to you, and why Andrew is still unconscious?”
“I didn’t mean to go,” I began, wiping a stream of salty tears from my face. I hadn’t even noticed that I’d been crying. The pounding in my head made it hard to concentrate. “But I couldn’t stand to look at him for another second! Did you know that he’s Andrew Breckinridge? He’s that monster’s son!”
Janine hovered nearer. “That is true,” she replied patiently.
“He lied to me,” I insisted, but the fury that had fueled me was gone. The only sensation that remained was bone-crushing fatigue.
Janine stooped down until she was level with my eyes. She grasped my arm and placed two fingers on my wrist, gauging my pulse.
“I’m terribly concerned for him. The propofol protocol has already proven to be incredibly risky. There’s real danger he won’t survive if we have to use it. It’s likely we’ll lose him unless you re-sync into the slice and retrieve him.”
“I won’t do it,” I mumbled. The medication must have already been taking effect; it was impossible to focus.
“I have known Andrew since he was a child,” she said, her voice low and even. “He is like a son to me. I can’t force you. But please…” Janine didn’t even try to hide her desperation.
“That lying bastard can go to hell…” I declared, my words slurred and barely audible. Then the world went black.
The brightness of the early afternoon sun makes me squint, and I wish for a pair of sunglasses. Yet I marvel at the aquamarine sky, the brilliant green fronds of the palm trees rustling in the breeze, the warmth of the sienna-colored terra cotta tiles. I stroll to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard and look down. The bottom of the basin is embedded with glazed sapphire tiles topped with lifelike sculptures of colorful ceramic koi. I had never noticed in the dark. I take a deep breath. I am at the house in Bel Air.
I sit on the teak bench that feels utterly familiar. I listen to the fountain burble and watch as honeybees buzz from flower to flower, their industry a miniature marvel to behold. A green hummingbird with a dazzling ruby throat hovers in midair, drinking nectar from the orange-fluted trumpet of a pineapple sage plant in a pot across from my perch.
It feels like a gift to rest in the warm sun, watching the bees and the birds as they busily complete their tasks. So I sit, for what seems like an hour.
Before when I’ve visited this place, the other Kate has known. But I am still alone, and so I decide to invite myself into her home.
Is it breaking and entering if I’m invading the house of another version of myself? I let myself in through the white-bordered double doors under the arched entryway. The room I enter is a textbook example of modern design. Contemporary but comfortable, white square-edged sofas surround a fireplace faced in golden travertine. The polished oak floor gleams; large potted plants soften the space. The room is decorated in monochrome and soft beige, except for a trio of large canvases on the wall opposite the fireplace. The three large canvases are simple azure fields punctuated by a few random black dots or an effortless slash of red. I shake my head and wonder if I somehow appreciate modern art in this reality. I doubt it.
I leave the room and wander down a hallway lined with photographs of exotic animals enveloped in lush green forest—a bright yellow bird with a beak black as jet, a three-horned chameleon wearing aqua and saffron stripes, a neon green tree frog perched on a crimson leaf, and a mountain gorilla, staring into the camera lens with an expression as old as time. To my left, a solid maple door stands open. I peer inside at a library with deep leather chairs and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A sliding library ladder stands waiting on the far side of the shelves. The two-story arched windows let in the full light of day, but there is no sign of life in the room.
I continue down the hall until I reach the bright, open kitchen—white cabinets, white marble, clean lines. The version of me with a much better haircut is sitting at the high bar of the counter, slurping soup from a carved wooden bowl.
“Hi,” she says, setting the bowl down next to a set of polished wooden chopsticks inlaid with turquoise. “Would you like some miso soup?”
“I’m more of a ramen noodles girl myself, but while in Rome…” I reply, settling myself on the adjacent stool. She rises, finds another wooden bowl, and spoons soup from a gleaming stainless stockpot on the commercial-grade stove.
I sip the steaming, salty broth. We sit together quietly, eating soup, for a long time. It is not at all uncomfortable to share this space with her in silence.
I am unsuccessfully attempting to pluck the sole remaining cube of tofu from the bottom of my bowl with my chopsticks when she finally speaks.
“Welcome back. You seem to be getting better at finding me.”
“I wish I could say I am doing it on purpose,” I admit, finally spearing the gelatinous protein cube with a move I’m sure would bring shame to the entire culture of Japan.
“You may not be doing it consciously,” she suggests, “but given the theory of infinite universes, it’s highly unlikely you are here by chance.”
“Do other Kates show up here too?” I ask. My head spins at the thought of keeping track of multiple versions of myself, each with her own litany of personal problems.
“No,” she says, smiling. “So far it’s just you. Perhaps this place is a unique beacon for you. Whatever it is, I’m always glad when you visit.”
I snort into my soup, feeling sure that can’t be true.
She stands up, collects the bowls and chopsticks, and moves gracefully to the sink.
From a high cabinet, she collects mugs and pours tea from an electric kettle.
“I would be pleased to see you if this is a social call, but I suspect that you may have something pressing on your mind. Want to talk?”
I can’t tell if we have a special connection because we’re the same person, or if she’s simply incredibly perceptive. In the end, I decide it hardly matters.
I sigh, staring into the steam rising from my tea. “Under what name do you publish your novels?” I ask.
“My professional name is Kathryn Rathman,” she replies.
“And in your nonprofessional life?” I ask.
“Everywhere else, I’m Kate Breckinridge.”
I feel a lump in my throat. “And in this reality,” I ask carefully, “what does Andrew do? For a living, I mean.”
“He started a company called Aegle Bioengineering. He’s been toiling
away on the development of a resource-negative and large-scale carbon sequestration technique. To combat global warming.”
“What’s an ‘aegle’?” I ask.
She smiles. “Greek goddess of radiant good health.”
I sigh and shake my head. “What is it with the Greek gods…” I mutter. “And his father? What does his company do?” I surprise myself with the level of rancor in my question.
She gives me a puzzled look and pauses for a moment. “Andric Breckinridge has been dead for fifteen years. He suffered a massive heart attack at forty-seven. Isabel divested his holdings soon after his death and has honored his memory by becoming a philanthropic tour de force. I’m curious. Does this have to do with why you’re here?”
I frowned. “Are you sure? Where I come from, Andric Breckinridge is alive and well, but he’s a vicious megalomaniac. And Andrew…” I feel an unexpected stab of guilt. “Andrew has built a biomedical device that allows him to—well, basically be you, I guess. He uses it to traverse realities.” I scowl.
“Ah, I see.” She nods. She thinks a minute. “You know, you and I do the same thing. And as you can see”—she pauses, glancing about her sophisticated kitchen—“I have also reaped substantial financial rewards.”
My mind reels as I struggle to comprehend this apparent role reversal; in this reality, it’s me mining the multiverse for fun and profit. But then I remember one important difference. “When you come back from your visits—do elements of the other realities come with you? To change your world?”
“No, of course not,” she insists. “Well, unless you count adding some new fiction. My ego is nowhere near large enough to believe that a couple of stories have changed the course of history.”
I knead my forehead with my fingertips and grimace.
“Well, in my reality, the traveling does impact us, in serious and unpredictable ways. What he’s doing is making my world worse. And he’s doing it for his father. And if that man isn’t pure evil, then I don’t know who is.”
She took a deep breath. “Are you sure he’s doing it for his father?”